Ballad of Lambs
by meowsaysthetardis
Summary: "the lambs were screaming." / clara oswald is an under appreciated journalist. doctor john smith is a renowned doctor, but is currently being over shadowed by his wife's breakthrough as a serial killer. as these two people come together they find that covers are never what they seem and that their downfalls come in the form of each other.
1. Beginning

**A/N: This story contains graphic imagery, read at your own risk. Favourite, follow, and review if you please.**

Fingers drift over ivory keys with hardened technique. In the room the only sounds that can be heard are the elegant notes that float from the grand piano. Before he started, the room had been loud and obnoxious, partying men and women with their champagne loudly chattering, clinking glasses together, giggling, chuckling, chortling. Too much delight had begun in his home, but now the stage was his. Though his eyes were on the piano, he had no doubt that each and every person had stopped whatever they were doing. Each woman with a cigarette now had extinguished it to save for later, each couple now sat somewhere in the room, perched and listening, and each man was probably gazing into the glass of alcohol, too afraid to break the spell. He feels his control over the people, and it's amazing to him that he can control people so simply, with Mozart or Bach.

As soon as he finishes the song, there is a dull ringing sound across the room of the sharp end. For a moment, each person believes the song will continue, and he almost fools himself into believing it as well, but then the applause begins, and the laughter fluxes in. Conversation picks up all over the place and the silence he so carefully crafted now falls into madness. He lets out a soft sigh, ready to leave the room, when he feels a pat on his back and he looks up to see a man whose name and station he never really cared to remember. Although, it was this man that had dogged him into playing the piece, so he decides to allow the conversation to go on.

"Dr. Smith, I knew you were a lot of things but never a pianist," the man's voice is rough and old, but John's lips tip into a smile despite the disdain he feels.

"You know what they say about talented fingers," he chuckles, going to slide off of the piano bench and stand over his guest. "Or rather what my wife does."

Popularity, he finds, is of importance to him – not that he has to try very hard to obtain it. After being awarded as one of the best up and coming surgeons, people tend to want to be him. He hasn't bothered to know any of the names of the people in this room, but they all know his. This is his mansion, after all, and almost every item in the house signifies that it is. The pillows on the sofas are monogramed with his and, unfortunately, his wife's initials. The champagne glasses all have the embossed lettering as well. The photos that hang about or are situated in cabinets or on top of the piano are of himself or his wife or the two of them together. None of them, however, are perfect. There aren't children in them. The smiles either of them wear are boring and fake. But people praise them for being an envied couple, like the idiots that John has always seen them as.

"Where is your wife anyway?" Reality asks this question often and today reality is brought in the form of the older gentleman.

"No idea, Melody likes to run off all of the time. Some days I think I ought to keep her on a leash – especially at times like these."

"You ought to, John, no woman is good on her own."

And he believes that, for once, someone else is smart enough to realise it too. "I know, I'll go looking for her later," his voice becomes dismissive; he probably won't look for her. If she doesn't want to be at her own damn party, then so be it. Frankly, he stopped caring for his wife the day they got married, or maybe it was before then. Love was too abstract a concept for him to care about, but she had money and that's what he needed.

"You want me to help you find her?" The question that the man presents is layered in many suggestions, and he knows exactly what will happen no matter what he says.

"No, that's quite alright, I'll go," he extends his hand to the other and they shake goodbye. John then winds out of the party to the kitchen and he looks about searching for something important. A few minutes later he has retrieved what he needs, and he finds that, yes, the man from earlier left the room. What a daft decision, really. He travels through the party again, saying hello to each and every person, asking how the food is, making sure they're all having a good time. He receives compliments on his piano playing, on his work in the field, and on fundamental things like his home or his appearance. After he's sure he's spoken to each and every guest he leaves the room.

The mansion he lives in is quiet on normal days, and so the moans of two people travel through it rather quickly. His path to the library is short and sweet – he knew where his wife was going to be the whole time and he really isn't surprised that she's being a slut. Gently, he opens the door to the library. He slips in carefully and makes his way to the couch where the two of them are far too invested in each other to notice him. The man, he discovers, is named Harold – and what a horrible name he decides that is, especially with how it's said on his wife's lips with such adoration. Though he can't see how a man with a pimpled back and a hairy chest, and a small dick is something she finds attractive. He's over top of her and he can just barely see her, because honestly he's one of the biggest men that John's ever had to lay eyes on. Poor Harold, though, beginning an affair with a killer's wife.

Minutes pass where he just stands watching as, in front of him, sex occurs. It's disgusting, pig like sex. Slowly, his hand slips down to take what he retrieved from the kitchen out of his pocket; a shining knife. It's been newly sharpened and it glints just the way he'd like it to. Then he's reaching to stab through Harold's back. Cutting through the skin is easy, but the fat and bones isn't. So he begins to repeatedly stab him until he slumps over the woman underneath. As soon as that happens, a gloved hand drops the knife to the ground. Screams are coming from his wife, but he moves to pull the body from her. Those eyes he hates so much glint with sadness and terror, and for once he loves them. He takes her cheeks in his hands and begins to comfort her, cooing at her.

"Shh, Mel, everything is going to be okay." Though clearly, it's not, she's covered in blood and fluids, and he's splattered in it. Her frizzy mass of hair is speckled with drying vomit, and she's paralysed in fear that he knows he can manipulate. "But I can't believe you would do this," he murmurs.

"D-Do this? You did this!"

He presses his finger to her lips and then shows her his hands which he made sure to cover in black gloves all the way back when he was in the kitchen. "Did I? Because as far as everyone else is concerned, it was you." He picks up the knife that he let fall to the ground and presses it into her hands. She's too shaken to move or to say anything. "I can't believe you would kill our friend, Melody. You know I have to turn you in. It wouldn't be good to hide this."

"But I didn't –"

"But you did kill him, didn't you? You're the one holding the knife."

She peers down at the knife and he watches as her eyes go wide. He stands up, slowly moving away from her, discarding the gloves into the fire that burns in the library's fireplace. Her screams of anguish have begun, her confusion setting in, and he goes to the phone, dialing in the police's number.

The press catches hold of the story of Melody Smith, perfect wife turned cold-blooded killer. They investigate a couple of days, but they find that even they feel terrible for the man known as Doctor John Smith, who has pushed himself into his home and refused to leave. Interview offers were constantly declined, and he only went to work for special cases. The world slowly began to forget about him, and everything became about her. He makes her famous with his solitude, and Melody Smith gets blamed for all of the murders that had begun wreaking havoc in London as they're all very similar in way of killing. He becomes known no longer as John Smith, but instead as 'Mourning Husband'.

Its a few weeks later that things return to normal – a full month after her being put in custody and sentenced to a mental institution. The only thing he finds he misses about having Melody around is having his own personal bitch. In fact, he writes this down on the small notepad he has sitting on the ornate desk in his study. He throws his pen down on the paper and then sits back in his seat, staring at the clock above his desk. His hand reaches out to grab the glass of sherry that had been left unattended for the past hour. The alcohol has become the most interesting part of his days, it relaxes him from being on edge although it's quite obvious that he's not going to be caught.

When the phone rings he takes it as a message from the devil, 'Yes you will be,' he seems to say.

Despite his better judgment he answers, "Hello?"

"Hi, this is Clara Oswald, I'm with the Herald –" the voice on the other end of the line is chipper, but professional and he sits up in his chair a bit more, but he quickly cuts her off as well.

"I've already been contacted by your office and I've declined any sort of interview. So I'm afraid, Miss Oswald, that you've just wasted your time as well as mine," he's about to go to hang up the phone, but she's quick to respond.

"I know that, but this isn't for the main page, it's just for the lifestyle section."

"Then find someone else who's just lost his wife, I'm sure there are plenty of people like me out there."

"But there aren't, and I promise I'm not like everyone else who's contacted you. I just want to know how you're dealing with things."

"So you want to bring light to the fact that I exist."

"Precisely."

He takes a moment to think, then he hangs up the phone. If she really wants this interview, she'll call back – and she does. Ten minutes later and it's ringing again, he knows it'll be her. "You know where my house is by now, be here at two o'clock tomorrow afternoon for tea. Don't be late, if you are I won't let you in." He then hangs up again, and when she doesn't call back he supposes their meeting is set. He takes another sip from his sherry and watches the time go by on the clock. After a while, he figures it's a good thing to do an interview, he'll be cleared of suspicion and people will finally see him as Doctor John Smith again, his fame will return, and Melody Smith will be buried behind bars.


	2. Meeting

**A/N: This story contains graphic imagery and adult situations, read at your own risk. Please continue to favourite, follow, and review however you please. Thank you!**

Red lips fill the small compact mirror that is immediately flipped closed at the sound of a slamming door. This happens often now, each morning she wakes up, gets ready for work, and then finds that he's come home drunk again. She sighs and slips the mirror into her coat pocket and then stands up from their neatly made bed, wandering into the kitchen in one of her nicest outfits; a pale pink dress the colour of bubblegum, beige tights, and two inch black heels that pop up her confidence. Immediately, she heads to the refrigerator and makes him something to help with his hangover. It's become a routine, and she finds that he's already flicked on the television. She hands him the mug and stares down at him with an almost angry gaze, but her voice is less angry and more passive aggressive.

"Fourth time this week you know."

A chuckle leaves his lips as he peers up at her crudely. "Yeah, you have a problem with it, sweetheart?" He goes to chug the contents of the mug and then throws it across the room and it hits just by the window where it cracks the mug in bits.

She does have a problem with it, but she doesn't say anything. All she does is go to clean up the mug and throw it away. "We only have three good mugs left, throw another and I'm going to stop making you any sort of remedy," she says stiffly.

"Start ordering me around and I'm going to throw you out of this house. I'm not a soldier anymore for a reason. Not going to have my girlfriend making a fuss every time I come back from having a good night out."

Another fight it'll be then, that's how he's playing this. "And I was never a soldier so don't you dare start ordering me around either. This isn't your house, you don't even pay the bills. I pay everything. All of your money is spent on prostitutes and … and alcohol and drugs. So don't you dare try to kick me out, because I'll be the one doing that." She moves off into their room, slams the door behind her and then goes to collect her coat and shrugs it on. If only she could leave him, but truth is she cares for Danny. The war was hard on him, after all, and he'd even been forced into setting off a bomb on a school. She understood why he drank, but she knew that his drinking lead to infidelity. She goes to grab her satchel and puts it on. He got it for her, and she won't forget that he does nice things sometimes, but her patience is wearing thin.

The door of the room creaks open and she freezes in front of the full body mirror. Either he's come in to yell more or to make up with her, but both ways are equally awful. She feels as his hands move around her waist, is forced to see it in the mirror. Her gaze quickly drops to the ground and she leans back into him.

"I'm sorry, Clara," he murmurs – apology, then. How typical. His lips fall on her neck and she sighs, moving to look at him. She places her hands on his chest and then leans to kiss him gently before she pulls away.

"It's okay. I have to go to work now, though, big interview today."

"I'll be here tonight, promise. We can go out for dinner."

She nods, but knows that he won't be there for dinner. He always promises and falls flat. Her heart is broken more and more every day. Right now, she can feel the cracks getting wider as she slips out of his hold. "Okay, Danny."

"Love you," and he really does sound sorry.

"Love you," but she doesn't sound like she's accepting it, she just sounds done.

It's a few minutes later that she's leaving their flat, shutting the door gently and then moving to travel down the stairs toward her car. That car is her pride and joy, took her a whole two years to be able to get it, but it's a shiny red Cadillac that everyone around her seems to envy. Really, it's the only thing they envy. After all, why would anyone envy her boyfriend or her old flat that's falling apart just like her relationship? Why would they be jealous of her reporting career stuck in the lifestyle section even though she could do so much more? The answer is, they wouldn't be and they aren't. There's nothing that people want from her and for some reason that rips her purpose away from her.

But, this desire to be known is also what made her develop an alias so many years ago – "G.I." she called herself, or rather, the Great Intelligence. People thought, of course, that G.I. was a man who was exceptionally brilliant, and that's who people envied. However, it was Clara who was G.I. not some mysterious man lurking in the shadows. She'd put herself in the line of danger many times just to catch hold of a big story, and she wrote for the main page all of the time. G.I. got her stardom, but lately the stories fell flat. Though now, as she starts up her car, she knows that she's on to something. She's not going to see Dr. John Smith for a lifestyle interview – she doesn't want to know how he's coping. Clara is going to see him to get under his skin, because she's sure that Melody Smith didn't have the guts to kill the man she'd clearly been having an affair with.

The time that Clara arrives at work is eleven o'clock, and she dreads that she has to wait so long to go see Dr. Smith. But her arrival time also gives her the opportunity to sort out her questions. She sits down at her desk in the far back corner of the busy work room for _The Herald_, tuning out all of the noise so she can focus. She slips her small notebook out of her satchel and then flips through to her current list of questions and begins scribbling all over it with a pen. Five pages are filled with questions, and a sixth one is filled with answers that she thinks he'll give – the standard answers. She'll dig in as far as she can.

Lunch at work is always the worst. When others go out to grab a bite together, she finds that she's sitting there eating a pack of crackers alone. Sometimes, her boss comes over out of a pity and offers her something, but today there is no such luck. At around one thirty, she decides she ought to get going, she's started working on crossword puzzles instead of things she should be and he did say not to be late after all.

At exactly one fifty-nine she arrives at the door of his mansion. It wasn't easy to get to, and it's much larger than she had thought it would be. Everything about it is ornate, the stone design, the golden trimming, the hedges, the planted flowers – it's a house she only wishes she could own. She goes to ring the doorbell and stands back from the door, lips just slightly puckering as she waits for him to answer.

Though it appears that he's the one who is late, because two minutes after two, she's still standing there waiting for him. Eventually, the door opens, and she looks at him with both kindness as well as a look of irritation. There are dark circles under his eyes, but everything else is put together.

"You're late," she tells him. "By three minutes. It seems my time was wasted."

And she expects one of those annoyed answers, but instead he smiles at her. "So it was, let's hope I don't waste anymore of it." He extends his hand toward her and she looks down at it and then back up at him before firmly going to take it. They shake in greeting and she slowly pulls away afterward.

"It's very nice to meet you, Miss Oswald, especially after reading all of your very interesting articles on how to cook chickens and how to decorate a home." It sounds like he's speaking against her work, but at the same time it's clearly a joke. She gives a small smile and laughs softly.

"Well, whatever pays the bills, you know? Most people don't look at the lifestyle section for anything else. And men definitely don't look at it. In fact, my boyfriend just throws it away." Making a quick remark about Danny right now probably isn't a good idea, but she does it anyway.

"If it makes you feel any better, I thought about framing a couple of them – wouldn't dream of throwing away the lifestyle section." He's then starting to lead her inside and she follows him in, looking to see a large staircase that drops down two different ways. She peers about, hears as the door shuts and locks behind her.

"You have a beautiful home," she tells him, wrapping her coat around herself further.

"Beautiful, sure, but it's big and lonely – even for just two people it always was," his voice is behind her now and she goes to turn to look at him.

"Then why don't you move?"

"Because I like being lonely," he states, shrugging. Her eyes narrow just the smallest bit. His gaze falls on her coat. "Here, let me take that for you, we have a coat closet and everything. State of the art, actually." She slips the coat off and hands it to him, but she holds onto her satchel tightly in one hand. He peers at it too as he takes her coat. "Didn't know journalists needed security blankets."

"It isn't a security blanket," she murmurs in defense.

"If it's not a security blanket then hand it here," he extends his hand to her and his gaze seems soft. She slowly goes to hand it to him, taking out her notepad as she does. "And leave that alone, I won't have you taking notes. If something's important, you'll remember it. That's how this interview is going to work anyway." She drops it and then takes a step back.

"What happens if I don't remember anything?"

"Then you really would have wasted your time, though I'm beginning to think that no matter what happens, I'm not wasting any of mine." The gaze he gives her then … she's not sure what it does to her but she feels her gut shift uncomfortably. If he's trying to flirt with her then he's going to have hell to pay, and she'll make sure of it. She crosses her arms over her chest as she watches him, lips just barely parted as she can't think of what to say. He just smiles at her, "Feel free to look around, I'll take you on a tour after I hang these up, yeah?"

What else can she do but nod? He doesn't give her very many options, and it seems that he isn't planning on it. She watches him go and then starts to wander about aimlessly. He's right in saying that this house is lonely, she can feel it in her bones, and her suspicions of him are dulled for the moment. But she won't be so easily swayed from the task at hand – finding out who really killed Harold Huntington and making sure that Melody Smith gets the justice she deserves.


	3. Interview

**A/N: This story contains graphic imagery and adult situations, read at your own risk. Thank you so much for your kind reviews, both here as well as on Tumblr. Please continue to favourite, follow, and review as you wish.**

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><p>That woman is trouble. As soon as he set eyes on her he knew, and as he hangs up her coat and satchel, he's weary. His hand dips into her bag, and he fishes out her notepad, going to flip through it. He reads through the questions that she clearly meant to ask him, all scrawled out in shorthand. What he finds most intriguing is that each question seems harmless. Though he knows, better than anyone, that appearances aren't what they seem. He takes her pen and goes to write her a note on one piece of paper toward the middle of her notebook before slipping everything back into her bag. There is no time to be wasted, even though he wishes to investigate her things further, and so he goes to travel from the room back toward the main living room, where he finds her drifting her fingers over the piano. A small smile tugs at the corners of his lips, and although he feels no emotion toward her he's sure to let his charm out. He's quiet as he goes behind her, and then he goes to softly murmur to her, "Do you play?"<p>

The jump that she gives is amusing to say the least and his grin widens as she turns to look at him, her hands going to the piano for support. "No, I never wanted to learn." Her gaze is that of a perplexing nature; he cannot tell if she's attracted toward him, if he scares her, or if she's indecisive - though he does decide on the later for time's sake.

"Why not? Playing an instrument is something that helps the soul. It's helped me a bit this past month." He reaches over her shoulder to straighten one of the pictures on top of the piano and then slowly lets his hand fall to his side.

"I just said I never wanted to learn how to play the piano - I'd much rather learn to play the violin if I was given the chance," her voice carries a level of thickness to it, one that reminds him she's spunky. Apparently, she won't be easily swayed, but good, she's giving him a challenge.

"Well, I'm afraid I have no clue how to even hold a violin let alone play it - but if you ever find yourself itching to learn piano, don't hesitate to ask me," he then pulls back from her, and watches as she turns to look at the picture he just straightened. He can see her eyes narrow.

"If you were both so in love, Dr. Smith, then why is it that you both hardly smile in your photographs?"

A dangerous question. He moves to take the photo off of the piano and looks at it warily. "Because I always knew that there was something wrong with Melody. I could always tell that she didn't really love me. This picture was taken right after I realised it for sure - that she wasn't with me out of love. Then she went to kill that man, and I realised how much of a fool I'd been to ever think that such a beautiful woman could be perfect." He sighs, and he's allowed himself to begin to fake tears. Carefully, he sets the photo back down on the piano and then turns away from it, taking a deep breath. "I'm sorry, it's just difficult to think about how much she tricked me. I love her so much and to have this happen - well I doubt you could even imagine." He doesn't dare to look up at her, she's being awfully silent, but he feels the hand just barely touch over his shoulder and then pull back.

"I can see why you've avoided interviews for so long," she says, and the apology is clear in her voice. Honestly, he's thankful she doesn't say that she's sorry, that's something he's heard over and over. "But your wife, she doesn't seem capable of this, doctor."

"Just call me John, yeah? Makes things less awkward for both of us, I think." He turns to look at her again, taking her in for a few moments as she nods.

"Of course, John," she gives him a small smile.

"Melody, though … she did kill that man. I wish she hadn't but I saw it with my own two eyes," he allows his hands to shake and he holds them by his sides. "But before we get into that, how about the tour. I'll tell you all about what I saw - you look trustworthy enough."

Her surprise is evident - and he knows then that she truly thought Melody was innocent. A she holds her tongue, he lets a small smile on his lips again and he begins to lead her around the mansion. He takes her to see the swimming pool, the glass room set up with a telescope, the library, a guest bedroom, a guest bathroom, the kitchen, the dining room, the different rooms they never found use for, the billiard room, and then he goes to show her his study, which he invites her into.

The study is situated in a room with no windows, only a desk, his own cushioned, leather chair, another chair, and then a large clock that hangs on the wall with a pendulum that swings back and forth. He offers her a seat in the extra chair, "Afraid that I actually ran out of tea leaves, but I do have quite a bit of sherry, that okay?" As soon as she nods he's moving to pour her a glass, he passes it to her and then turns his chair so he can look at her as need be. She is perched on her chair elegantly, back straight and right leg crossed over her left. She sips at her sherry, only really wetting her lips with it and he avoids getting his own for the time being.

Silence begins for a while, and then she's gazing at him. "Am I allowed to ask any sort of question I want?"

"Any sort," he confirms, opening up the floor for their proper interview to begin.

"How long have you known Melody?"

"Since I was sixteen. Our parents became good friends as soon as their family moved to town and they set us up right away. We got along okay, but Melody always led the relationship. I didn't know I loved her until I was twenty; realised I did whenever she got sick and wound up in the hospital for a couple of weeks. We got married that year, she became a fashion designer and I became a doctor. So I've known her, for what, fifteen years now? Oh, and before you ask, just to get this out of the way, _**no**_, she never showed any signs of being a serial killer," he spits it out like it's a diseased word. "She'd go out with her friends all of the time, and I always got intricate stories about their supposed trips whenever she'd get home. I didn't bother looking for ulterior motives because as far as I was concerned there weren't any." It's much longer of an answer than he needs to give, he knows, but that's why he lets it be drawn out. His voice is as sincere as he can make it, and he's allowed it to seem as though his nervous tick is digging his index finger against his leg. If anything he hopes to seem agitated by the notion of his wife in any form.

"Are you angry with her?" The question that Clara asks is more quiet than he expects it to be. His gaze moves on her carefully and he gives her a single nod.

"I'm furious with her," he admits, his voice soft. "Furious that she'd jeapordise herself like this. I understand using me, I do. We were practically forced together anyway, but to go and put her whole life on the line just to take others? I don't see the point in that or the logic. But what I'm most furious about is knowing."

"Knowing?"

"How she does it, how cruel she is," he goes to press his hand to his forehead and then sweeps his fingers through his hair. The gaze that Clara's giving him makes him think that he ought to go on, her curiosity yet to be quenched, but he waits for her to propose another question. This meeting between them is part of his game and he has to keep the control of the situation.

He avoids her gaze until she takes a breath to speak, and then he peers up at her. During the break in conversation, he's managed to perfect image of distress on his features. "You said you saw it, did you really see her kill a man?" He nods. "And you're willing to tell me about what you saw?"

"Only if you ask in the right way, that's not it."

"I don't need to restate my question," she says, it seems he's struck a chord. "It's the same no matter how I word it, so how about you just answer? How cruel is your wife, John?"

A smirk tugs at his lips and he goes to reach around to his desk to retrieve his half-filled glass of sherry. He takes a sip of it, then sets it back down in the same place, he then goes to slowly sit back in his chair. "We were having a dinner party, I didn't even want it. She decided that we needed to celebrate the award I'd just received with something fun, and so I suggested a trip, but she wanted a social gathering. Halfway through the night she just disappeared, no one knew where she'd gone off to, and I went looking. I only found her because of the fact that she was moaning." He reaches around to grab the sherry again, his hand now shaking. He presses the glass to his lips and takes a large gulp of the alcohol. "Harold Huntington and my wife, on the sofa in the library, naked. Now there's something that you'd never expect. I was stunned and I was close to leaving, I was going to bring it up later - after all the people left, but she spotted me. It's amazing to me that we characterize monsters as fictional characters so often … and then we find out that even the people we love can become those creatures of our nightmares," he finishes off his glass, setting it back on his desk, and he can tell he has her undivided attention.

"What did she do next?" She prompts him.

"She said, 'John, I'm so glad you could join us.' I'd never heard her speak like that before, other than when she was drunk - but she wasn't drunk at all. I was frozen there, and I didn't really know what to do or say, but she came over to me and pressed a kiss to my jaw and then told me that she wanted me to watch. I was about to yell at her, tell her that she'd had too much to drink (even though I knew she hadn't), maybe even tell her I wanted a divorce - but she didn't want me to watch them have sex. Instead, she took a knife from beside the couch and went to stab through his chest. She kept stabbing him over and over and over, and of course I've seen blood before, but I've never seen anything so carnal. The knife was picking up his guts toward the end, sending bits and pieces every which way, and I couldn't do anything to stop him from dying. I got closer to him and was going to try, but what do you do in that situation? I couldn't tear her from him and I was paralysed." He takes a moment to collect himself, as if he's just remembered the most traumatic experience of his whole life. His voice becomes dangerously quiet. "Then she said, 'I've always wanted you to watch,' and I told her that she was a monster. I think I broke her heart by saying that, but I broke the heart of a madwoman. She started crying and wouldn't stop, but that gave me time to call the police - and you know the rest of the story, I suppose."

"John," Clara's voice is almost quieter than his own, and it forces attention to be drawn to it. His gaze travels to hers. "You did the right thing." He can see that she's become crestfallen. He wants to laugh at her and say, _it seems I've won the game, _but unfortunately he can't. He doubts he'll ever see her again after this interview, unless of course she happens to see the little note he scribbled earlier on in the notebook, so it's best to keep playing at his own pitiful story for the time he has left with her around.

"I know that, and yet I feel like I haven't. I always wanted to protect her, but now I've let her be taken away." There's a long pause in the conversation again, and he looks at his watch for the time. He waits for her to ask another question, but she doesn't. "If there's nothing else, I can see you out now," he murmurs.

She goes to slowly stand up, he rises from his seat as well. The air that hangs in the room weighs down heavily, he reaches to take her empty glass of sherry and slips it on the table next to his. He rubs his index and middle fingers to his thumb, swirling the moisture around on the pads of them. He takes the lead, going to open the door of the study for her and then he travels beside her as they walk back toward the coat room. "You know, Miss Oswald, I don't see how this is going to do you any good for the lifestyle section," he winds up saying, opening the coat room door and beginning to collect her things.

"It is, you'll see. I can't promise it won't make front page."

He laughs at that, women's writing never makes the front page of the newspaper, nor does he think it ever will. "At least you have an imagination - but I've read your work and frankly, you're no G.I." G.I. - now that was someone who interested him truly. The man that lived behind initials, posted stories about the string of murders the whole time that they were going on. Clara Oswald is simply a pretty face that he needs to manipulate to keep his image pure, but G.I. is his enemy and he'll use Clara if he needs to just to keep the mystery journalist off his trail.

"I might not be, but maybe I will be one day - you never know," is her soft reply, he returns with her coat and he hands it to her, keeping her satchel in one hand. She goes to grab it, but he holds it back again. He takes her hand in one of his and goe to place the strap in her open palm, then he closes her fingers around it and pulls away.

"I don't think anyone should aspire to be G.I, if you ask me, he sticks his nose in places it shouldn't be. You don't want to turn out like that." He gives her a small smile, and she doesn't return it at first, he sees her hesitation in her lips. At first they dip into a frown but then tip up into the slightest smile. She goes to hoist the satchel up over her shoulder and then she sticks her hand out to him again.

"I'll keep my opinions to myself, but it was nice meeting you, Dr. Smith. If I need anything else, I'll call."

They shake hands and then his smile widens, "Please do, or just call if you're bored - I don't mind."

"Maybe I will," she's then pulling her hand away and she starts toward the door, going to open it. He watches her go, and isn't that surprised when she turns around. "Goodbye, doctor."

"Goodbye, Clara."

The door is then shutting gently behind her as she exits. The soft click of the lock is the only sound in the whole home other than the ticking of a clock.


	4. Betrayed

**A/N: This story contains graphic imagery and adult situations, read at your own risk. Thank you for the continued reviews - I'm so sorry about the wait on this one, but life got the better of me. Anyway, enjoy and please review, favourite, and follow as you wish.**

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><p>Home is a cold place, and she knows this before she even finally returns to it. Her interview with Mr. Smith had been interesting, eye opening. The man was smart, almost too smart, and his constant need to take blows for sympathy was something that caused her to question his credibility. At the end of their meeting, the hatred he had for G.I. was immense. No normal man would hate her alternate identity so much if he had nothing to hide. She's spent most of the day at the office, finally returning since she was promised dinner. Though yet again, the promise falls flat. She opens the door to find their apartment just as spotless as it always is, there's not the smell of food, or even a man sitting on her couch dressed nice and waiting to take her out.<p>

What did she really expect from Danny at this point, though?

The answer, she finds, is that she only expects betrayal. Right now, she'll bet he's gotten bored and gone out to fetch himself another prostitute. All of Clara's hopes had been that he'd apologise for real this time, yet now she's just solidified her thoughts on the matter of him. He's officially deserted her; written her off as the woman at home who pampers him when he's around.

With sadness impending, Clara sets her satchel on the sofa, smoothes out the wrinkles on the cushions, and then she leaves to go to the bedroom. She gets undressed, takes a shower, then puts on her pyjamas and dressing robe. For a while, she tries to clear her head by drinking tea and reading a book, but too much is happening in her little life for her to concentrate. She takes out her notepad and just starts to write. She talks about how she should break up with Danny, about how John Smith is probably responsible for the murders his wife's gone down for, and how she's just tired of all of the liars out there. In a world where so much counts, people go to extremes that she doesn't really see as fathomable.

Eventually, she forces herself to bed, settling down. Most nights, she can just sleep, but tonight she's left thinking … mostly about Danny. How can she concentrate when he's doing all of this to her? Ever since she'd met him at her first job she'd liked him, and then he left to be in the army. He returned and they started dating right away, but four months is hardly enough time for her to be okay with living with him. She's so exhausted that she winds up falling asleep with thoughts of how to break up with someone she thought she could possibly spend the rest of her life with.

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><p>Its four o'clock in the morning, she knows because the clock next to her bed says so. The door is slammed shut, then. There are giggles, and grunts, and then there are moans.<p>

Its four ten. Clara gets up out of bed, wrapping her dressing robe around herself, opening the bedroom door to peek out. Its four eleven and her heart is officially broken. As she walks into the living room, he doesn't even notice. He's too busy with a woman who has short black hair, skin as dark as chocolate. Her moans are loud, louder than any moans Clara's ever heard before, and she's nipping at Danny's neck like it's a chicken leg. But then she spots Clara, and there's that bit where everything just stops. Clara's eyes eventually meet Danny's and she swallows, stepping backward from him a bit. Her finger rises accusingly.

"You," she says. "You leave at night. You go and fuck people who aren't me, and you know that's always been fine – I've always been able to hope that'd end. But now you bring them into our flat? Into our home?" She laughs a bit, her gaze pulling from him as she regains herself. The laughter stops and she goes to take off her dressing robe, throwing it at the prostitute so she'll cover herself, and then she leaves the room and goes back into their bedroom. She gets out a bag from under the bed and packs – throwing a week's worth of nice clothing and pyjamas in it. She goes into the bathroom and grabs all of the things she'll need in another bag, and then she slips her shoes on, grabs her coat, and goes back to the living room, getting her satchel. She stares at Danny, and the woman who still hasn't left (the woman that he's literally got his arm around), and she slams the door, going out to her car. She throws her things in her trunk and then she sits in the front seat, taking out her keys, turning on the car so she's got some heat.

Its four forty and she's shivering. Her eyes are shut closed; she's sucking in breath through her nose and out her mouth. She holds her coat around herself tightly, attempting to find security within her own clothing. But soon, her breathing becomes short, and the hot tears are leaking down her cheeks. She's still trying so hard not to properly cry, her head curled in and resting against her steering wheel. He's left her before she even had the chance to leave him. She knew that one day he would open up to his betrayals, but the fact that in the very home they share together he's fucked another woman is beyond her. After all of this time, after all of the promises and all of the work she put into the relationship, it's over. And she's got nowhere to go. The only place she can think of is a cheap hotel that's practically in ruins a few blocks away. Yet she's in no state to drive, because her heart feels like it's been ripped from her chest. The tears get worse and soon her whole body is shaking, her sobs are that of animal quality, and the wave reaches its maximum when she starts to not be able to breathe.

At five o'clock she's pulling up to the hotel, and she looks like a mess. Her hair is still like it was when she got out of bed, she's still in pyjamas, and her eyes are red. She goes inside to pay for the room, but finds that her money level is very low and she's only got one hundred pounds – not enough to keep the room for a good few days. So she says sorry and leaves to sit in her car again. She slips into the back seat, uses her coat as a blanket, and falls asleep for a couple more hours.

She wakes up to the sound of knocking on her window, she's freezing and it's seven o'clock. The owner of the hotel has come out to tell her she can't stay parked there, so she goes back to work. She gets changed at a gas station on her way there, does her makeup and everything, then she stops by a doughnut shop and buys a dozen for herself and her colleagues. She pretends to be fine that day, as if she hadn't just spent the night in her car. When she gets asked out to lunch with some of the secretaries from the floor over the newspaper's, she politely declines. She has to save her money, and it's not as if she really needs lunch. At about three, she finds that there's something she could do to save money … and all of that lies in John Smith.

He wants to play games with her? Fine, she'll take the bait knowing full well what's on the other side. It isn't like she has no idea how to play the cards to her favour. She rings him a few minutes later, and she makes sure that her emotion from earlier returns, sniffling a bit, even.

"Hello?"

"Hi, John, it's Clara Oswald – the reporter from yesterday."

"I know who you are – hello, Clara."

There's something about the way he says her name that sends chills down her spine. "Hello."

"Why are you calling? Was there something you needed?"

"You said to call if I got bored. I'm bored."

"Are you?" It sounds like he knew she'd get bored too.

"Yes. I'm bored and I'm tired, and I really need a drink."

"You don't seem like someone who goes for a drink."

"And you don't seem like someone who'd turn down the journalist who is trying to save his wife."

"You'd be right about that, come over tonight."

"No."

"What do you mean, 'no'?" She likes how his voice suddenly turns angry.

"I mean no … as in come pick me up. I'll be the girl sitting in her car listening to the radio outside of The Herald office building."

"Fine, what time?"

"Whenever you want, I don't have anywhere else to be."

"Then I'll see you eventually, Clara."

"See you, John."

It's all on impulse. She knows he wouldn't have ever asked her out anyway, so it's her duty to. If she can, she'll get the money out of him for a hotel, she doubts he'll say no if she plays her cards right.


	5. Dinner

**A/N: This story contains graphic imagery and adult situations, read at your own risk. Thank you so much for your continued support on Tumblr of this fanfiction. I'm hoping to start getting up chapters more quickly as I get a little less busy in real life. Feel free to comment, review, etc. My tumblr is cosmicsouffle if you wish to contact me there. Again, thank you.**

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><p>The call surprises him, more or less. Not exactly the fact that she did call, but rather the fact that she's specifically asking him to take her out on what seems to be a date. Not that he isn't one for the casual drink, but she was very persistent on them going out rather than having a brief meeting at his home. Perhaps she already knows he could use her, or maybe she wants to use him, but no matter the option, John decides it best to take her up on her offer. He doesn't wear anything all that nice, and he doubts she's going to either; but he's going to take her somewhere better than a pub for drinks.<p>

When he arrives at the parking lot outside of The Herald's offices, he sees her there laid back in the seat of her car like it's her bed or something. At first he's confused, but he puts the pieces together rather quickly. She's asked him of all people out on a date, she isn't at home … he's pretty sure she's living out of her car. Though he says nothing on this matter, simply moves over to unlock the passenger door of his own car. Whenever she finally looks up at him, he grins at her, and he sees that little smile of hers - but he can't tell if she smiles in malice or pure kindness. He thinks she's a strange woman, full of secrets, that she's less simple minded than he had treated her when she came for the interview. Though he thinks the odds are good that he can sway her into liking him, if he tries hard enough.

His car is one of the newest models of the Jaguar - it's sleek and black and seats up to five people. John is impressed with his own wealth, so he always shows off his car if he can. Though Clara's is also nice, (almost nicer than his), and he's got no idea where she could have gotten the money for it. Maybe she has rich parents, from the way she dresses and acts he wouldn't be all that surprised. His hands grip at his steering wheel as he waits for her to enter the car. She seems to be taking her time, and he's pretty close to driving without her, but then she's slipping into his car and she settles back.

"Hello, Clara Oswald," he says as soon as she's got her seatbelt fastened, he finds this mannerism particularly cute seeing as how he never even bothers to put his on.

"Hello, Doctor John Smith. Fancy seeing you here," and he can hear the thickness in her voice that seems to be trying to melt at his cold innerworkings. He doesn't like it. He doesn't enjoy the fact that she's trying so hard to flirt with him. It should all be natural rather than forced, and if their flirtationship continues he'll have to knock that out of her. But he grins at her joke, going to start backing out of the space he's pulled into.

"Ah, well, you know, got a very important phone call saying I should stop by," though he really just wants her to stay clear of him.

He can hear her laugh, and its sickeningly attractive, but he doesn't say that, instead he moves to flick the radio on as they drive. He thinks that makes her uncomfortable, but then again he doesn't really care about how anyone feels, not even himself. Though it's so hard to tell how she is feeling. He'll ask her why she's asked him out after a few drinks, maybe more than a few. The idea of taking advantage of her when she's drunk becomes empowering. What he wouldn't do to stick his cock inside of a woman who is on her wits end - who wants to find out all of his secrets. That would end her, she wouldn't be able to say shit about him because he'd just use it against her. All in all, he knows men are smarter than women, though a few have actually surprised him. She was starting to, but now he thinks she's just another slut obsessed with money and nice things. Maybe he'll get her some nice jewellery after this, something from Tiffany and Co., he thinks that would shut her up for a while. Or maybe he'll take her home, play the piano for her, make her fall in love with him … he quite likes that idea. The game with Miss Oswald could very well continue if he did that. It wouldn't be that hard. She might be coming in for the kill, but he can very easily persuade her otherwise.

Whatever music on the radio suddenly stops, and he realises she's turned it off and is looking out the window now. His lips turn into the smallest smile, "What's wrong? Don't like The Beatles?"

"It isn't that," she says, and he lets his lips press into a neutral stance. He waits for her to explain and when there is no explanation he decides to press on.

"Well, what is it then?"

"It's a song about love."

"Okay, but aren't you all into that? I mean, cheesy love songs?"

"Sure, I would be if it were any day but today," and god she sounds miserable. He can't tell if she's acting or not so he stays silent after that. He flicks the radio back on, turns the dial so that classical music fills the vehicle and continues on to a small restaurant in Chiswick. It's far enough away from where they live that he won't really be recognised and that if he wants to kill her she'll never be found. Though the chances of him killing her are depleting as he senses her vulnerability.

He notices after getting out of his car, locking his door, and moving to her side to help her out, that she seems very unkept. Her hair is a bit frizzy, her makeup roughly done, her clothing creased in different areas, her fingers twitching against the fabric as though she's upset or nervous. At first he thinks to put an arm around her and then decides against it as they start to walk forward. He does all of the gentleman like things he can do, opens the door for her, pulls out a chair for her at the table he gets for them. Whenever they're settled he smiles at her softly.

"Why don't you get more than just a drink, Clara? I don't mean to sound rude but you look like you could use it."

She nods, and then goes to sip at the water that's already been set out for it. Her hand shakes, and he wonders if it is because she hasn't been eating enough. "Thank you, John." He can't tell if he likes or hates her right now, he didn't have to form an opinion about her before but now he fact that she has willingly come back into his life not even a week later from initially meeting him means she's probably staying. He is weighing the options as they start simple small talk, asking about each other's days and about how her article is going, those sorts of things. Eventually, he decides she's too pretty to kill right now, too innocent as well. Her wide brown eyes, that button nose, her full lips - he really does like her face a bit much and he wouldn't want to slice it up unless she really made him angry. He decides that he'll keep her around for a while, maybe even forever. It's a quick decision, but one that he has to make in advance. He'll make her trust him before she can ever find out who he really is.

The food they get is so-so. He isn't that impressed. The drinks, however, are excellent and she downs wine like it's about to go out of style any moment. After the second glass, he winds up urging her to slow down on the wine … which leads her to order an apple martini instead. He gets one as well, takes a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket and goes to light it. He sees her look at it longingly.

"Do you smoke, Clara?"

"Yeah, but I had to stop because I couldn't keep paying for the cigarettes."

He smiles at her, hands her one and then lights it as soon as she places it in her mouth. It's awfully attractive, even more so than anything else she's done. Seeing her relax is definitely entertaining, because she sinks into her chair a bit. "Stay my friend and I'll give you all the packs you need."

"I didn't know we were friends now," she mutters, he watches as she smokes to calm herself and he laughs softly.

"No? I seemed to get that idea as soon as you called me up and told me to take you out," he sees the grin that comes across her face and then the decision to tell him appearing in her gaze. He picks at the sorbet he ordered as he waits for her to give in.

"Aren't you even curious as to why I called you?" she asks him. tapping her cigarette on the ash tray.

"I am, but I wasn't gonna just come right and ask, now was I? Go on, then, tell me, because you seem like you haven't slept or had a good meal for the past day."

"I haven't. My boyfriend's been having an affair," she says it casually too.

"You don't seem too upset about that."

"I'm not, I knew it was happening, but he brought her to our house, while I was sleeping. So I left."

"You didn't just kick him out?"

"I didn't want to be in that house anymore."

He takes a long drag from his cigarette, taps it on the ash tray, and then raises an eyebrow at her, "What, so you're going to keep living out of your car? Why don't you stay at a hotel?"

"I don't have enough money, all of it goes to paying the bills and clothes and food and gas."

He's just now realising how stressed she is, her voice seems to have that sort of whine too it. Oh, but now he sees why she's using him, she wants his help and wants him to pay for a place for her to stay. Fine then, she'll win this little bit of hers. She's playing the game well and he can see that her emotions are real, but exaggerated enough and she wants to fool him into it. "I could help you pay, if you needed. I've got enough money." He presses his cigarette out in the ash tray, deciding he's had enough of it for now.

Her eyes light up, fake or not, it's funny. He has to keep himself from laughing. "Really? You'd do that for me?"

"I'd do that for anyone, love. But for you I'd even let you stay in my mansion if you wanted. After all, you've been a pleasant date and it isn't like I have anyone else living with me right now. The maid comes in on Monday, Wednesdays, and Fridays or if I call, so it isn't as though you'd ever be bothered."

"Would I have to pay at all?" Is she actually considering his offer? He'd meant it only as a joke.

"Maybe in sex. I haven't had any of that since Mel left."

Her cheeks turn red, the crisis gets averted, she puts her cigarette out to cover it up. "I think I'll just stay at the hotel." He grins gently before going to pull out a few large bills from his wallet and he hands them to her. "There you go. Enough for at least a week or two - all it's going to cost you is dinner with me on Friday night. I'd like to get to know you more, even if you don't want to get to know me at all."

He thinks he's probably won at this point yet again. The game is far too easy, but he sees her suddenly more interested. Maybe it's the alcohol getting to her. "Okay, sounds nice."

"I'll take you to a nice hotel near that office building if you want," he murmurs as he flags down the waiter and pays for the food, letting the change be his tip.

"That's okay, I'd rather drive there and get situated myself."

Of course she's avoiding him now, he gets up from the table, pushes his chair in. He waits for her to join him and then goes to take her back out to his car. It's not long after that that they're driving with classical music filling the vehicle. It calms him enough that he doesn't want to strangle her for being so god damn obvious about wanting to take money from him. He takes her back to her car, avoids talking to her during the trip because he thinks if he does he might wind up yelling at her for being a stupid bitch. He parks next to her car carefully, then smiles at her softly.

"Thank you for dinner, John, and the money, you really didn't have to do all of this," she's just playing out that innocent card way too long. But he keeps smiling.

"No problem, Clara. I'll see you on Friday - be sure to give me a call once you're settled in your hotel, okay?"

She nods and then leans over and she kisses him on the cheek. That surprises him, he thought she'd be itching to leave. He smiles at her a bit widely, letting his expression soften. "Goodnight, John," she says, going to slip out of the car.

"Goodnight," he murmurs as she shuts the door. He watches her get into her car, staring at her arse. Her body proportions are nice, at least for a girl of her size. He then goes to leave the parking lot. Right now he wonders if he should go home or go murder someone who looks exactly like Clara, but he decides he has more important things to worry about. Even though he'd really like to dissect a Clara look-a-like to see if those brown eyes are real or not. He doesn't think they are, maybe they're robotic. Because every single time she looked at him over dinner, he swore she was looking into his soul.


End file.
